


Escape And Retrieve

by QueenOfNewOrleans22



Category: Lords of Chaos (2018), Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Fluff, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22
Summary: "Du vet at du alltid kan snakke med meg, ikke sant?"Øystein's breathing evened out as he fell into a heavy slumber."Ja."Quiet as a church mouse, Pelle slipped out of bed and into the piercing cold air, his bare feet falling onto the icy wood flooring.
Relationships: Euronymous | Øystein Aarseth/Dead | Per Yngve Ohlin
Kudos: 34





	Escape And Retrieve

" _Du vet at du alltid kan snakke med meg, ikke sant?"_

Øystein's breathing evened out as he fell into a heavy slumber. 

" _Ja."_

Quiet as a church mouse, Pelle slipped out of bed and into the piercing cold air, his bare feet falling onto the icy wood flooring. He paused for a moment, and glanced back behind him, where Øystein lay, deep in a blissful slumber, undoubtedly exhausted after their recent trip to Europe. It hadn't quite gone as planned, but that was alright. 

Assured by the soft snoring and closed eyes, Pelle stood up, and crossed the room with silent steps, the darkness seeming to worsen under the guide of a slender figure as he walked around the room and bent down to retrieve his boots, which were still covered in mud from his earlier escapades. 

Øystein made a noise that came from the back of his throat, stirred slightly, and less than a split second later, fell back asleep. His dark hair covered much of his face, and those eyes that had provided much warmth were closed, getting some sleep after hours upon hours of traveling. Pelle was exhausted, but couldn't find it within himself to sleep, and so he did what he'd always done, and crept down the stairs, experienced enough that he avoided the creaking wood with natural ease. 

The cabin was dark, despite the sun that was just barely beginning to creep up from behind the mountain ranges, and it was still bitterly cold. Pelle shivered despite himself, and as he reached into the drawer of a nearby table and pulled out his hunting knife, it became quite evident about how much of the day would later go. 

Norway was always cold, but the same could be said for Sweden, which was, after all, its sister country. People couldn't quite say that he missed his home, because he didn't, but there was distinct sense of displacement that lingered at the back of Pelle's head, and it bothered him constantly. 

He closed the door behind himself, and stepped out into the cold wilderness, looking up at the multicolored sky. Norway was beautiful, and Pelle did appreciate the beauty, but as he walked towards woods, the beauty came at a different price than it should've. 

Pelle moved amongst the trees and underneath the leaves that shielded him from prying eyes. He had the knife in one hand, but the other grasped at empty air as he moved towards a small hill that he'd visited countless times before. In the past few months, Pelle had slowly been getting used to spending more time around people, especially Øystein, but he craved being alone, and in the woods, Pelle was solitary and a lone wolf amongst the darkness. 

It had stopped raining just a few moments before Pelle had left the cabin, but the storm clouds were gathering again. The dirt beneath Pelle's boots had turned into mud, and with every step, Pelle felt like he was sinking. 

A wolf howled in the distance, but Pelle wasn't afraid. 

He couldn't die again, after all. Not by anybody but his own hand, and that day would come soon, but not yet. 

The rain began to pour down, a slight trickle that turned into a full on downpour of harsh water. Pelle could feel it running down his face, drenching his clothes, and he stopped, lifting the knife, watching as it glinted bright with rainwater. 

He raised his hand, raised the knife, and with deliberate slowness, dragged the sharp edge down his skin, watching as the flesh broke apart and blood ran down his arm. It dripped onto the mud and mixed with the dark brown, disappearing under the weight of the rain. 

He raised his other arm, and did the same. 

None of the pain registered, not through the haze in Pelle's mind. 

He was already far too gone for that. 

Pelle raised both of his arms, and with his knife still in hand, stared up at the sky and its dark, stormy clouds. He closed his eyes, and felt the rain pour onto him without care. 

Blood seeped onto the ground, dripped onto his boots, stained his soaked clothing. Pelle could feel the death, the rot, within him, and opened his mouth, licking his lips as the water poured down. 

"Hva i verden gjør du?" Øystein said, confused and evidently still mostly asleep, appearing like a ghost through the fog. "Å, faen. Hold opp, Pelle!" He said in a louder tone, sprinting across the distance that separated them. Øystein was similarly soaked, but his eyes were wide and alarm as he took in his lover's appearance. 

Øystein grabbed Pelle by the shoulders and took the sight of the younger man in, panicking slightly at the sight of blood. But then Øystein examined Pelle's arms and was relieved at the fact that they weren't deep wounds. In fact, he had cut over healed scars, and, thus, it wasn't as dangerous. 

"Kom igjen, la oss dra hjem." Øystein said with a sigh of relief, wrapping his arm around Pelle's waist and walking along, encouraging for the younger man to follow, and he did. They stumbled along in the dark, slipping around in the mud before finally finding their way back into the cabin. 

Øystein made quick work of Pelle by ushering him into the bathroom and forcing him onto the bathtub. Quickly, Øystein washed off all of the blood, and as the remaining liquid swirled down the drain, the guitarist wrapped Pelle's arms in gauze. 

His touch was tender, loving, gentle. 

Pelle stared down at what little remained of the blood, and his thanks was silenced by Øystein, who gathered him back up and took off his shirt, pants, and boots, ridding him of the drenched, dirty clothing. Øystein found clean, dry, warm clothing and helped Pelle into them without a single word, but there was something dark and sweet in his eyes that made Pelle feel - 

What? 

Special. 

Øystein guided Pelle back into bed, pulling the blankets up and over them, ignoring his own damp clothing. He kissed Pelle on the forehead and wrapped his arm around the younger man's slim waist, securing him in place. 

"Glem aldri hvor spesiell du er for meg." Øystein said. 

Pelle didn't know what to say, so he only pressed closer to the body behind him. 


End file.
